


Defying Normality

by imhavingapheeling



Category: Dan Howell - Fandom, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF), Phil Lester - Fandom
Genre: Broadway, Director!phil, M/M, Phan - Freeform, Wicked - Freeform, actor!dan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6960307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imhavingapheeling/pseuds/imhavingapheeling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since preschool, Dan has always had a passion for theater.  Despite his family's disapproval, he decides to move to the USA in order to get his dream role: Fierro from Wicked.  The only problem is that Phil, his new director, finds a subtle interest in Dan even after casting him as a main love interest.  Soon, Phil has to figure out how to balance his own feelings, the quality of the show, and Dan's endless teasing/flirting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nerves

**Author's Note:**

> This is chapter one so yeah. Chapter two coming very very soon.

It felt as though I had read over the monologue a thousand times. I wouldn't have been surprised if I had, anyway. I was prepared, I swear. There is no doubt in my mind that the director didn't realize that. Otherwise, my whole career could have suffered just from this one simple mistake. Broadway isn't forgiving, but thank God Phil was.

That morning, I experienced the longest 17 minutes of my life. I rode in a taxi from my microscopic apartment in New York to one of the largest Broadway theaters in existence. Being in this city was by far the most out of the ordinary thing I'd ever experienced, as I had grown up in the outskirts of London, England. My whole family laughed unapologetically when I explained my plan to move to New York City in America just to pursue my acting career, but I felt that, with the right amount of luck, I, Daniel James Howell, could see my name in flashing lights... Or at least, on a cast list of sorts. It was my dream since my first production of Little Red Riding Hood in preschool when I played the grand role of "Bird #3." Now, I was going out for an only slightly bigger role: I wanted to be Fierro. The male lead, from Wicked. This had to be the most well known male part in all of Broadway, but it wasn't just me being stupid, no. I knew every song and every line and every step by heart. I had it all worked out, for I had rehearsed my audition down to the millisecond for the past three years.

I remember arriving at the theater, never being so intimidated by a set of doors. They looked like gigantic slabs of gold even though they were relatively normal sized and probably cheap, I guess. The building itself really was enormous though, and seemed very fancy. Upon entering, my heart felt as though it was trying to kill me. A strange gust of air from the doors caused my hair to fly in every direction possible, causing me to frantically sweep my brown hair back over the their correct side. The first thing I noticed after walking in was a desk to my left with a large, dark-skinned man with a spacey expression plastered on his face despite the nervous flailing I had just performed to straighten out my hair. I turned to him in confusion, trying to examine the image of what appeared to be a map behind him on a wall.

"Sir," I choked out. "Where do I find the auditions for Wicked?"

He nodded absentmindedly then seemed to jump into awareness, giving an unexpected but welcoming smile.

"Up those stairs, good sir," he cheerfully replied, taking me by surprise with his kindness. I snuck a look at his name tag which read "Joi." I pondered the pronunciation: Joy? Joey? No matter. He seemed not to notice my confusion anyway. Joi seemed in his own little world. "Break a leg!" he shouted after me as I began walking towards the elegant staircase.

While heading up towards the seemingly endless set of stairs, my eyes didn't leave the red carpeting. My mind was wrapped strongly around the monologue and song I had picked; replaying the motions with the words and the emotion with the lyrics. Every part of my audition was planned and practiced to close to perfection, but I knew it made no difference and nothing really would.

Needless to say, I felt screwed.


	2. Number 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, a lot of vulgarities are included in this one

There I sat, in the front, center row in the sea of seats in the midst of a giant theater. Hundreds of other actors flooded in from every side around five minutes after me, clouding the spaces around me with the scent of cologne-abused fabric. Every one of us had the same dream: to be cast as Fierro. We all had the same amount of determination within us to stand out among the crowd, causing all of our strained efforts to blend into one long drone of predictable monologues.

My audition number was 17 since I arrived so early, which was both a blessing and a nail in my coffin. Every few minutes, a deep, male voice would rumble from behind us at a desk near the middle of the theater. He would call out the next person's number, causing my fists to clench more every second. I could feel my heart burning a pulse into my throat, while one tiny detail began to reveal itself to me. "Four?" "Thirteen?" "Fourteen?" This man wasn't American. He sounded British, just like me. Growing up in a busy, English city taught me to fear the common neighbour. If the director was anything like our city, I had everything to fear.

"Sixteen," He called into a mic with the same deep voice. It almost gave me chills because of how resonant and bass-like it was.

The word settled into my every cell. Sixteen. I was next. In the moment, it felt like it was life or death. Everything in the room was spinning around me, causing me to feel as though the air was genuinely tossing me about. There wasn't a muscle in my body that wasn't tensed, and my legs involuntarily tapped the ground. Keeping my breath steady was like holding onto a bar of soap: you get it and you feel so proud, but then you drop it again and spend another ten minutes trying to p- where was I going with this?

"Seventeen," the voice called. /Oh shit./ My mind went blank while the stage cleared of number 16. Up I went to center stage, trembling desperately. In the darkness past the blinding spotlights, I saw a figure sitting behind a desk with large framed glasses and a button-down shirt. He was the man behind the booming voice from the speakers. I was staring too long, I remembered. This was my time to prove to my parents and myself that I could be Broadway material. In a burst of confidence, I started.

"Hi, my name's-"

"Oh, sorry, we weren't ready yet. Give us a second and we'll tell you when to go."

/Oh shit./ This was a mistake beginners almost always make. I was no beginner. I studied the moving figure in the distance, his hand moving across the desk; I assume he was writing something. Suddenly, he looked up and appeared to gaze directly at me from what I could see.

"Alright, go on ahead," he offered.

"Okay, sorry. Alright, so hi. My name's Daniel Howell and I am here to audition for the role of Fierro. I'll be singing Her Voice as Prince Eric from the musical The Little Mermaid then reciting The Most Frightening Wonderful Thing from the play Goodbye Charles."

I'm not even sure if I really said all of that or not. It went by so fast that I forgot what even happened. I rubbed my sweaty palms over my black pants, preparing for my music track to start. All that I do remember is being slightly out of breath from speaking so quickly, and then a long, painful pause of silence. After the pause came... Another. Then another then another. Where was the music?

I strained an awkward laugh, waiting for the track to play. The disk had failed me at home before, but now was obviously not the time. When it finally did, I felt the usual trance take over again. My years of practice led me to go on autopilot, feeling the emotion of the song pull me across the stage in the exact way I had done it back in my old theater. Though, the chorus came around and the music froze yet again. My overexcitement and anxiety caused me to think less than I should have, and I trusted my instincts. In an attempt to "fix the CD," I absentmindedly proceeded to stroll straight off of the stage, landing on my hands and knees on the stiff carpet floor in the midst of the orchestra pit. I was beyond lucky that I hadn't broken an instrument as it was completely empty at the time.

Stifled laughter filled the room, but one voice seemed genuinely concerned.

"Are you okay?" The same, deep booming voice called out. I then heard the voice lacking the microphone, but instead moving closer to me. I quickly tried to straighten out my black shirt and dust off my carpet burned hands before looking for the source of the voice.

Upon looking up, I saw him. It was Phil Lester. Just one of the most renowned and successful Broadway directors of all time. His concerned expression made me feel uncomfortable, as I felt as though it was me who should be concerned. I owed him an apology, not vise versa.

"I'm alright. I'm so sorry, I just practiced in a place where I was able to do that and I was so nervous it was really j-"

"No no, it's fine. During my last audition, I introduced myself as Flililip," he stumbled on the last word for comedic affect. I'll admit, that made me laugh a bit and feel better. Or maybe it was the fact that THE Phil Lester had his hand on my shoulder. "Do you want to start over? We can give you a good thirty seconds worth of monologue. We've heard you sing enough."

I had no idea what "heard you sing enough" meant, but it sounded negative to me. Regardless, I took the opportunity, nodding, then began speed walking back up to the spotlight.

In hindsight, I'm not sure how quickly I went through my monologue. All I wanted was to get the fuck off of that godforsaken stage. I knew that my auditions were always worse than my performance. The question was, did Phil know that?

Upon leaving the stage and hearing number 18 called up, I looked back at Phil while also keeping watch of the floor in front of me. I was not ready to fall again that day. The space was so silent and calming compared to he rest of New York, so I decided to just stand there watching the actors auditioning until 24.

Passing by Joi again, I noticed him noticing me again.

"Heya, boy!" He called to me, gleefully. I turned around to ensure he was speaking to me: he was?

"Hi," I answered awkwardly.

"What's your name by the way? With a man so damn fine as you, I can definitely assume I'll be seein' you around here a lot," Joi slurred. Suddenly, the atmosphere changed. I felt like I was a bit more naked for every inch of skin that I showed. I shivered uncomfortably and locked eyes with him.

"My name's Dan. Yours?" I stuttered to ask the question. I had to know how to pronounce it, mainly.

"Name's Joi," he replied. I sighed in relief - it was more like "Joy." He eyed me more, causing me to attempt to subtly inch my way out of the doors again. "You've got to have a pretty sexy girlfriend," Joi blurted randomly, interrupting my escape.

"What?" I shouted, stifling laughter, gesturing to my body. In this movement, I was hoping to display my endless flaws.

He laughed at this and said, "oh, of course. I should've known because you're an actor," he howled with laughter this time, slapping his desk. He thought I was gay.

"What? No no no, I'm not gay," I retorted, feeling butterflies of embarrassment fill my stomach. I'm bisexual, I thought, but didn't say.

Joi laughed harder, dropping to the floor on his knees. When he first began to wheeze a bit, I finally made a run for it and left without another word.

Stepping back onto the concrete felt like a sensation from my childhood. The smell of cigarettes and sewer drains were oddly comforting after being surrounded by so many people judging me for every time I inhaled. At least the men on the streets were more focused on their cigarettes and pavement-burgers. Compared to Phil Lester, they looked like peasants after meeting the king. His hair was so dark against his clean, white skin. Phil's style was so crisp and colorful. He was just so... Pretty.

Hopping in my next taxi back home, my mind replayed the shapes and colors that flashed before me as I collapsed before hundreds of people including the most successful Broadway director of all time. This sounds like me. I tend the screw up the easy things and then dig myself a grave with my own permanently scarring embarrassment. That day was no different. I'm almost certain that my cab driver thought that I needed a trip to the mental institution rather than my tiny apartment. My breathing wasn't only fast, but it was unsteady and loud. Their was sweat in so many crevices that I felt like I was drowning. I was beyond happy to close the door behind me, and step into the sweet, air-conditioned room of solitude that was my entrance hallway.

The first thing I did was swan dive, face-first into my fluffy duvet, nearly swallowing my body in a crinkly, blank mess. My hair had completely lost its part and was just a sloppy mess. I looked like half the Dan I used to be. When I finally mustered the strength to peel myself off of my bed, I did what I normally do after awkward situations: stand in front of a mirror and contemplate the meaning of my existence.

It started out trivial; it was all about my hair and a weird bump that I found on the skin in front of my ear. Eventually, I lost my train of thought, staring at the mirror's crisp reflection of my own eyes. Yep, they were still my eyes. The same brown circles, the same subtle bags beneath them, the same sparkly reflection from the mirror lights. They were the same eyes I saw in my family's house. It reminded me of what they had said to me before I left, and it began to manifest in my mind like a virus. Never since I stepped foot in America had I doubted myself that much. Those eyes belonged to a boy from the UK who's only blindly kidding himself by trying to do something as monumental as moving to New York.

"That" I referred to myself in the mirror in anger, "is not 'Broadway material." Then, my brown eyes changed a bit. The whites began to fade into a soft pink along with my nose. Tears began forming, and a lump seemed to grow in my throat. "When do you think was the last time a Broadway actor fell off of the stage trying to fix their audio track?" I spoke so aggressively to myself, avoiding a volume at which my neighbors could hear me. "The answer is never because you are the only one to do that, and hell. You know you will never be a Broadway actor."

All hope was lost at that time... Or at least, my energy. Looking back on that night, I was probably just extremely tired. In fact, all I had the energy to do after insulting myself in the mirror was to dive back into my duvet, let a few more tears soak into the black fabric, then drift away into an uncomfortable, but well-needed sleep.


	3. Oh Joi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends are made, mistakes are made, etc. New people and concepts are beginning to enter the story. Here, the real story begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More cursing in this chapter than the other two. Just a forewarning.

Waking up the next morning was surreal. I opened my eyes to find myself in a disgusting mess of tears and bedsheets. Everything that happened the day before was a blur, and I wasn't even sure it happened. It could've been a nightmare.

But I knew it wasn't. Nightmares just get worse and worse for me, and they don't make any sense. If it were a nightmare, the day would have ended with a bear chasing me, or aliens coming down to murder only my family and I. One thing about the audition proved to be different: Phil. He was no where near the kind of thing I'd see in a nightmare. Phil would have completely lost it, laughing on the floor, slapping his leg, banging the desk. No part of what he did made me feel embarrassed or scared or uncomfortable. Maybe he was a dream and the rest was just a nightmare. It was totally possible.

I reached into my pocket to try and find my phone, only to realize that it lay beside my head behind a mound of crinkled fabric. The light of the screen flickered on to display "4:00am." Are you kidding me? I turned off my phone, and flipped it face down, crashing my body into the bed again.

"I'm not sleeping again," I decisively whispered to myself. Taking a moment to harshly rub my face and wake up a bit more, I sat up and took in the muffled noise of the city. The cars, the horns, the tourists, the musicians all made me miss being home, away from the noise. Silence was so far away. As was peace.

In the moment, I wasn't really paying attention to my surroundings. Then, out of no where, a ding scares me out of my trance. I jump back a bit, gasping. Rolling my eyes, I pick up my phone and notice the email I had received was from a name that sounded rather familiar. It was from "Phil Lester." I nearly jumped out of my skin to read it, realizing it was a group email to multiple people I didn't know. My heart was pounding so hard that I nearly fainted and refused to read it, but my curiosity decided for me. It read:

"Hello Fierros!  
You guys were great at the auditions yesterday, and my panel and I were totally blown away. Though, given some setbacks, some of your auditions weren't fully appreciated. Therefore, for all who receive this email, we invite you to come back to the theatre building again tonight at 6pm for callbacks. These will be 1-on-1 rather than in front of an audience for our preferences' sake. You'll find us in room 118B on the second floor.  
Thank you all,  
Phil"

Well, I thought. I was the setback, wasn't I? I wasn't "fully appreciated." Phil and "his panel" needed more from me than 30 seconds of a monologue and a fabulous performance of falling off the stage. I could see why they wanted to have callbacks, but I couldn't understand why they would give me a second chance. Either way, I took the opportunity.

I sat in a taxi again, picking at my fingernails. Pulling up to the theatre doors again felt like the worst idea possible, as if I were going to redo the audition all over again. My mind fought itself; was I happy or unhappy that the auditions were private?

I would have the chance to better focus on myself rather than the other people auditioning, but I'd also have to be in a room, face to face, with my biggest fear. I felt like a seven year old boy again, crying ashamedly because I thought I had grown above tears. Phil truly wasn't a bad guy and I knew that. Everyone who had ever had the chance to work with him loved him, so why was I so terrified?

Standing before the giant, glass doors again caused my entire mind to fall blank as if I had already stepped foot on a stage. The weight of the doors was enough to intimidate me more. Looking back, I cringed at how much of a crybaby I was at the time. My eyes prickled and stung to remind me that I was weak and afraid. It didn't help that another set of eyes were on me as I attempted to stroll in as calmly as I could manage. Unfortunately, I heard his almost aggressive voice from my left again.

"Ah, if it isn't Dan again! Welcome back, my man," Joi shouted to me. I slipped him a quick side-smirk and picked up my walking pace in hopes that he would get the hint.

He didn't.

"So, Dan. Mind if I chat with you for a second? You in a rush?" Uh, well no. I wasn't. I wasn't in a rush to be on time for the call backs, but I was definitely in a rush to get the hell away from Joi. No matter my discomfort, my social anxiety got the best of me and took my body under its control. In the awkward moment I was given, I nodded in agreement and sauntered towards his desk. Within seconds, he had his huge, muscled arm uncomfortably touching my back to ensure that I remained facing away from the rest of the lobby.

"How are you, babe?" Joi smoothly moved his arm down my back a bit, causing me to shiver in fear. He was dangerously close to touching my ass, and this made me instantly feel like compulsively vomiting. Babe? He seemed nice, but this was a very touchy situation for someone whom I'd only met twice.

"Uh, rather stressed and worried about the callbacks," I replied honestly. No need to lie, I thought. What's the worst that could happen?

"Aw, sorry to hear that, Danny," he almost whispered. It took every part of my physical being to keep from cringing visibly. No one had every called me "Danny" besides my family, and I hated it. Either way, I didn't want to be in the conversation. "You've got the part no doubt though: you're tall, dark, mysterious, and really sexy. You can't not get this part."

Sexy. Joi just called me sexy. Ew? EW? Every part of me felt violated. At least he... Appreciated me. A long day of hating myself wasn't necessarily cured, but it was at least nice to know that someone thought fondly of me. Though, it was obviously unfortunate that it had to come in such a blunt package.

"So, I've been thinking," Joi bit his lip. Oh. God. "I have... Stuff, that I think you might like." Uhh. "A guy like you who's under all this stress can easily take a break just to relax and forget about the show. I mean, I know a lot about this illegal business, and I can assure you that I am the safest way you can get away from this theatre." He wasn't wrong, I guess. My heart began to race. This man was surely insane to think that I would ever agree to drugs. But who would find out? Ugh, it wouldn't matter because no one would have to know. It would just be Joi and I, and I would only do it once. Whoa whoa, are you kidding? Think of your parents, Dan. They want you to get a real job and not screw it up. This is exactly what you swore you'd never become. Although, to be fair-

"Honestly, that sounds like fun."

/What./ Okay, well. I said it. No matter whether I wanted it to be or not, this plan was in motion. Immediately, I regretted letting my mind make the decision for me. Was it even me? Dan would never agree to this sort of thing. Who was I?

"Great, babe. Can't wait. Maybe later? Meet me at the corner outside at about... Mmmm, 9?" Joi leant into me, radiating a heat that violated my personal space. My teeth chattered before I nodded in order to dismiss him and end the conversation. I quickly turned my back to him, and walked away briskly towards the carpeted mountain of stairs.

By the time I made it to the top, I noticed that the amount of time that it took me to make it from Joi's desk to the theatre doors could have quite possibly broken a record. Unfortunately, I probably also broke my flimsy body. My heart was working overtime trying to keep up with my worryingly speedy breathing. I felt dead. The good news was, I was still early to call backs, which was never my case. I was almost always late for everything, but that was not a day I was willing to sacrifice for a few extra hours in bed.

It was just then I realized that I had forgotten where the email said the call backs were to be held. All I knew was that there was no way in hell that I was going back to ask Joi. I opened my phone and turned my back to the nearest wall. Staring at the loading circle swirl about caused my stomach to drop a bit. How unprofessional of me. Did I really forget where I was going just because I ran into someone who knew me a bit better than I knew them? There had to be someone in the theatre directing people somewhere, I figured. Well, I hoped. Using every ounce of strength in my body, I pushed the doors to the theatre open as slowly and silently as I could possibly manage.

The familiar smell of embarrassment violated my nose as I stepped into the uncomfortably cold room. Judging by the silence and overwhelming darkness, I had already assumed no one was in there. Just then, I felt a presence to my side and I noticed a small blur in my peripheral vision.

"Excuse me?" It spoke up from the brightly illuminated hallway. To my left was a tall man that seemed somewhat familiar. His hair was pulled into tight, dark curls that fell to his ocean-like, blue eyes. He had thick, pink lips, but my eyes locked to a particular birthmark on his cheek. That's when I remembered. This was Troye Sivan: a lead in most Broadway musicals to ever exist. Well, damn. Was he in Grease? Not sure I remember, but he was everywhere. His face had been on too many posters in my room. I'm not even entirely sure I know how to count that high. My heart jumped into my throat. Suddenly, Grease Lightening was stuck in my head.

"Hmm?" I answered flustered.

"Are you looking for Wicked callbacks?" Troye asked, raising his eyebrows and walking towards me. It was then I realized how much of a gigantic fangirl I was for him back home in London. Shit, I thought. Don't let it show, please, Dan.

"In fact, I am. Am I in the wrong place?" Slowly, I let the theatre doors fall closed. My eyes were glued to Troye, who seemed like he had noticed that I noticed him. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

"Yeah," he laughed, kindly. He seemed to politely ignore my fangirling. I finally felt comfortable around someone, thank God. "They're down this hallway. I can show you there as I've finished my callback."

"Thank you so much. That's so kind of you," I smiled, walking toward him and began to trail beside him.

"It's alright. This place is huge. I've not been in this theatre many times, so I understand," Troye explained, taking the lead and showing me down the bright hallway from which he came.

"So do you know Phil Lester that well?" I blurted out before I had time to build up courage. I had been blurting out a lot recently, so the shock factor was nearly gone.

"Oh, not really. This is my first time working with him," Troye said casually. "Though, I've been talking with him a lot since auditions started yesterday. He's been really kind to me over the phone." Of course, I thought. He's going to be kissing Phil's ass just like most popular actors are supposed to do. Curse his outgoing personality. At least he said Phil was kind. "Have you caught it too?"

"What?" I asked, furrowing my eyebrows and glancing at him. The flu? The drift? I mean, I don't know.

"I don't think I've ever met a person who's found Phil unattractive."

"HA!" I bursted into laughter before him. "Not really, but I see where you're coming from."

"Oh, it won't take long," Troye said with a wink. Oh shit, I thought. God I hoped he was wrong. From all my crushes in the past, I knew that falling for my director would be a road trip to failure.

He stopped in front of a door with a fogged glass window. Atop of the window was a piece of paper with the words "Wicked Callbacks Inside" printed on it. Seeing the words in person made it all the more real, and therefore terrifying.

"This is it," Troye sighed. "I best get going now, but it was nice to meet you..."

"My name's Dan," I answered for him.

"Dan," he repeated happily. "Do you want my number so I can keep you up-to-date on what I know about Phil and the overall casting?" Was that even a question?

"Oh yes, definitely," I whispered slightly, afraid to further disturb the callbacks. I pulled out my phone and allowed him to enter his number.

"Text me after callbacks, okay?" He smiled. "Let me know how it goes. Break a leg," he handed my phone again and began speed walking away.

"Bye!" I whispered as loudly as I could while still keeping it a reasonable whisper.

I turned my body back to the door, and sucked in as much air as my body could physically contain to turn the knob. Please, please let this go well.


End file.
